The Adventures of Sherbock Holmes and John Bockson
by Spaghetti Writer
Summary: What if everyone was a chicken? An idea based on a silly pun. rated T for some violence and crime scene descriptions. Very loosely based on "A Study in Pink".
1. Chapter 1

The Adventures of Sherbock Holmes and John Bockson

A Sherlock Fanfiction and/or Parody

Disclaimer: I **DO NOT** own the BBC.

Warning: If you hate puns, DO NOT read this fanfic.

Alternatively…what if everyone was a chicken?

It was a glorious spring morning in the city of London. The sun slowly rose over the horizon as chickens large and small woke up. Everything was perfectly, happily, blissfully normal. Except for a single flat on Baker Street.

"AAAAAAAAAH!"

John's beak dropped with shock. A severed foot was placed on a plate in the middle of the refrigerator, right next to the half-full can of baked beans John was intending to eat for breakfast.

The thick scaly foot was oozing blood onto the shiny white plate, the fridge light reflecting off the plastic wrap it was draped in. John gagged and held a wing over his beak.

"I do think I may have lost my appetite," he clucked weakly, closing the fridge.

John Bockson was a small chicken, with pretty silver lacing, a short comb, and large nostrils. A former soldier who had served in the Great Squirrel War, he shared his flat in London with the eccentric, emotionally distant detective Sherbock Holmes. He knew he should have been expecting a wing or a leg preserved in the fridge for one of Sherbock's strange experiments, but it was Sunday. Couldn't Sherbock take a break?

Just then Sherbock came out of his room. He immediately noticed John and waved cheerily.

"Why the shocked face?" The tall, thin rooster was genuinely confused.

"Nothing. N-nothing at all," John stuttered back, knowing that if he even dropped the most obscure reference to any of Sherbock's so-called "research", he'd have to listen to Sherbock explain and perform the experiment in front of him.

"Great. Anything interesting in the paper?" Sherbock reopened the fridge, got out a refrigerated cup of tea, and drank.

"Jeez. Just a minute." John waddled over to the living room, where a stuffed cicada head hung from a trophy mount. He picked up yesterday's paper, sat down in his cushy wingchair, and flipped the newspaper open.

"Hmm. _Series of Mealworm Robberies from Convenience Stores_ –"

"Bo-o-o-oring," Sherbock crowed, walking over to and sitting in his own wingchair across from John's. "Any murders, perchance? I _love_ a good murder."

"I know," John replied impatiently. With a flap of his wing, he flipped the page of the newspaper. "How about this one? _Mysterious Murders in Central London_ -"

"Serial killer, eh?" John nodded. "Let's get to it." He stood up and flapped his wings excitedly.

John's face turned pale. "Sure."

END OF CHAPTER 1


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

 **NOTE:** I know that my chapters have been incredibly short. Apologies for that.

John and Sherbock were now walking briskly along the streets of London. While they were doing so, they struck up a conversation.

"So, d'you think it could be Cluckiarty this time?" John inquired.

"Certainly hope not," Sherbock clucked back. "I don't wanna see you strapped with bombs again, huh?" He winked and clacked his beak at John.

John shook his head. "Nope." Cringing, he remembered when he, Sherbock, and his nemesis, Jim Cluckiarty, had a tense showoff at a swimming pool. Cluckiarty had strapped a bomb to John and almost blew him up, with snipers trained on both the chickens' necks.

Soon the two chickens were at the door of the police station. Sherbock opened the door.

"What're we doing here?" John was genuinely confused. "I thought you said that the police were stupid."

"We're off to see Lestrade," Sherbock explained.

"But I thought he was Poop Inspector," John crowed. "He'll be no use to us, lookin' at poop samples all day."

"Oh, he got promoted to Detective Inspecktor," said Sherbock nonchalantly. "Ins _peck_ tor, like in _peck_ – I dunno why they have to throw in all these bloody puns."

John bobbed his head in agreement.

Soon they reached the Detective Inspecktor's office. Sherbock balled up a wing and knocked on the translucent glass door.

After a few moments of waiting, the door swung open. In the threshold stood a stocky rooster with a gray trench coat on. His comb was short and neat, and his feathers were light gray.

"Hello, Sherbock," said Lestrade excitedly. "I got promoted!" His face lit up with happiness.

Sherbock was unamused. "Yes, yes, I know," he clucked unenthusiastically. "This has only been, like, the _fifty-seventh_ time you told me."

Lestrade's smile faltered. "You've been counting?"

"What more would you expect? But I digress," Sherbock waved a wing in the air. "John and I are here for the murders. Y'know, the ones in the paper."

Lestrade clucked something under his breath. "Of course you are. Follow me."

He went to a corner of his office that was occupied by an enormous file cabinet. As Sherbock and John watched, Lestrade pulled open the top drawer and flipped through them, his wings a feathery blur.

After a few minutes, the rooster pulled out a file. "Here it is!"

"Great." Sherbock picked up the file and opened it. Inside was a map of central London with all the spots of the murders marked.

John stuck his silver-laced neck closer to the map. "I count five murders. That's a lot."

"I know, right?" Lestrade whistled a low note. "Quite a lot. Anyway, Sherbock, you can take the file. I've got a copy."

Sherbock picked up the file. "Thanks. We'd better be going now." He nudged John with his wing.

Lestrade looked a bit crestfallen. "Okay, then-"

Before he could finish his sentence, Sherbock and John had already left his office and shut the door.

END OF CHAPTER 2


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

* * *

 **NOTE:** Yay! It's finally out! Enjoy!

 **NOTE 2:** Chickens don't wear shoes. Keep that in mind.

 **NOTE 3:** This is probably the chapter that mimics "A Study in Pink" the most. Other chapters hopefully won't.

"So, John, where's the site of the first murder?" Sherbock asked excitedly, looking over at the map from the file.

"Calm down, Sherbock," John clucked. The taxi we're on is headed for it." He ruffled his feathers.

"Really?" Sherbock's eyes had a hyperactive light in them and he was bouncing up and down in his taxi seat like a little chick.

John had no response as he face-winged in frustration. Sherbock could be an enormous pain in the vent sometimes. He decided to keep his beak shut for the remainder of the taxi ride as Sherbock continued to pester him like a chick who had just eaten a bag of candied beetles.

A few minutes later, the black cab pulled up at a flat surrounded by caution tape and police cars with their lights and sirens on.

"Are you sure this is the right place?" the cabbie asked suspiciously. "It looks like someone's been murdered here!"

It was Sherbock's turn to keep his beak shut. John sighed. He'd have to explain to the cabbie why they were here.

Ten minutes later, John had successfully convinced the skeptical cabbie that they were detectives at the crime scene and paid the tartan-capped rooster nineteen pounds. Sherbock resumed his excited state and was flapping his wings in John's face. John was almost at his breaking point, but he remained silent.

Sherbock lifted the caution tape with one wing. John went under first, wings deep in his pockets.

At the door of the flat, a small beige-feathered hen was talking with another chicken dressed in coveralls.

"Found anything yet?" she asked the coverall chicken. The rooster shook his head. Then the beige hen turned and noticed Sherbock and John.

"Hello, _freak_ ," she said to Sherbock, her cluck tinged with derision. "You've come?"

Sherbock paid no attention to the sarcasm in the hen's voice. "Hello, Sergeant Bawkovan. Lovely day, isn't it?"

The hen paid no attention to Sherbock's remark. "Freak," she muttered under her breath.

Sherbock pretended not to hear Bawkovan's remark. John felt increasingly awkward about the situation. Before the sassy sergeant could diss Sherbock another time, the rooster and his friend had already gone into the flat.

Sherbock stopped another rooster in coveralls holding testing equipment. "'Scuse me, Mister, but where's the body?"

The coveralled chicken thought for a few moments. "It's upstairs. Go down the hall and it's in the second room down to the right." He pointed up a flight of stairs leading up to the second floor of the flat.

Without another word, Sherbock ran enthusiastically up the stairs, dragging John by the wing. John stumbled on his claws and his spur got caught on a loose nail, which made a small scratch on his toe.

"Stop dragging me up the stairs, Sherbock," John crowed. "You've already made me scratch my foot!"

The two were at the top of the flight of stairs. Sherbock let go of John's wing and happily hopped over to the second room on the right. John halfheartedly followed.

The threshold to the room was blocked off with yellow caution tape, which Sherbock and John went through easily. Three other chickens in coveralls were taking footprints and taking notes.

Inside the room, there was the body of an unfortunate rooster sprawled out facedown onto the carpeted floor. His neck feathers were matted and bloody, a gaping cut exposing the chicken's jugular. The weapon, a butter knife, was stuck up to the handle in his neck. Blood seeped into the gray carpet, turning it scarlet. A wingchair in the corner was torn and the stuffing was coming out. The window just above that wingchair was open, the curtains also in tatters.

"This is gonna be fun," Sherbock clucked quietly. The coveralled chickens gave way to Sherbock as he pulled out a magnifier from his pocket as John quietly watched.

Sherbock examined the body. The dead rooster was wearing a green-and-red striped jumper that was soaking wet, even though it hadn't rained for days in London. On his toe, there was a gold wedding ring, which was tarnished and cracked. Sherbock took the ring off of the dead chicken's toe. The inside was clean and shiny.

"Found anything interesting yet?" asked John, growing a little bit impatient.

"As a matter of fact, I have," Sherbock clucked curtly. "His jumper is wet, but his feathers are dry. That probably means he was somewhere rainy before he came here. And as we all know, chicken feathers are great at repelling water." He paused to take a breath. "The outside of his ring is dirty, but the inside is squeaky clean. This means that he's either very lazy and never bothers to polish his ring, or he's in an unhappy relationship with his significant other. The latter is a lot more feasible."

John nodded, once again impressed by his friend's deduction skills.

Sherbock continued. "I also found a train ticket in his pocket." He held up a small paper farecard. "It says he left from Bristol this morning and got off at London at noon. And guess where it was raining this morning? Bristol!" Sherbock held up his smartphone, which had the forecast for Bristol. The glowing screen said that it had rained that morning in Bristol.

John clacked his beak and looked up from the notes he was taking. "Alright, Sherbock. Don't be such a flashy-feathers."

Sherbock nodded, not paying attention to what John was saying.

Suddenly, Sherbock noticed something. "Look, John. There are a bunch of scratches on the wall." Sherbock pointed his wing toward a series of faint scrapes on the wall next to the window.

John looked closer. "By cluck, you're right! I think they might spell out something." He squinted and looked closer. "R…A…W…K…? Rawk? What the hell?"

Sherbock was confused as well. "Well, for one, it could be a shortening of Rawkuel, or it could be referring to the slang term which means 'to cluck.' Strange."

John nodded and jotted Sherbock's observations down. "Strange indeed."

After John finished his sentence, there was an uncomfortable silence. A coveralled rooster was silently collecting a blood sample from the dead rooster as Sherbock and John stood there awkwardly.

"Y'know," John interrupted uneasily, "I really think Sherbock and I should be going." He stuffed his notepad into his pocket and grabbed Sherbock by the wing. Without another word, the two chickens left.

* * *

END OF CHAPTER 3

 **NOTE:** Any suggestions for the next chapter? Ideas would be greatly appreciated in the reviews. Thanks!


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

 **NOTE:** Sorry this chapter took a bit long to write – I'm almost out of ideas! But it's still here!

Sherbock and John were now back in their flat, wracking their brains over what exactly the mysterious word carved on the wall at the crime scene could have meant.

John was poring over a volume of _Encyclopedia Clucktannica_ while Sherbock was on his BawkBook researching public records, his toe wrapped in a adhesive bandage. John was reading the section on common British feminine names, focusing particularly on the section on the name Rawkuel.

"Sherbock," John called, "It says here in the encyclopedia that 'Rawk' is also Old Chickenese for 'revenge.' Isn't that strange?"

"Interesting," replied Sherbock, munching on a beetle éclair. "I also forgot to tell you something at the crime scene."

John tensed, his hackles sticking up with excitement. "What?"

"When I reached into the poor rooster's pocket, I realized that something had been taken out of it earlier since the inside of the pocket was messed up and a bit inside out. Most likely a phone of some sort, because he didn't have a phone anywhere else on his body." Sherbock stuffed the rest of the éclair into his beak.

"That's quite a chancy guess," John replied skeptically. "I wouldn't put my money on that."

"Statistically it's-" Sherbock began testily, but not before he was cut off by John.

"I just thought of something – maybe the word could be a password to something!"

Sherbock nodded. "That could be," he said, wing to his beak. "Sassy-feathers stole my thunder again," he muttered. "Maybe he did mean to spell out 'Rawkuel' but died before doing so. Which brings up the question of who killed him and why."

John got an idea. "Perhaps I can search for the victim's name and find out his email. The name could possibly be the email password!"

"Go and do that," Sherbock clucked. He handed his laptop to John. "Go ahead. I've been dying to get to that experiment on that leg."

John paid no heed as Sherbock got up from his wingchair and went to the fridge. After opening it, he unwrapped the bloody leg and gingerly placed it on a tray on the kitchen table.

Sherbock had just begun to look for blood clots in the leg when John found something.

"Look at this, Sherbock – the poor rooster knew he was going to be murdered all along!" John gazed at the computer screen incredulously. He had just found the rooster on a public records search, typed in his email, and used "Rawk" as the password.

"Interesting." Sherbock opened up a few of the drafted emails. The first one, from a week ago, read:

 _I doubt anyone is reading this, but if you are, please help me. I've had the feeling that someone's been following me around for the past few days, and I've reported it to the police – they think it's a bloody prank! Apparently they say that there's no evidence!_

"Interesting," Sherbock clucked again. "Open the next one, John." With a flick of his wing, John opened the next email, which was dated as two days ago, the day before the poor chicken was murdered. It read:

 _I'm still being followed. The police are still in denial. Earlier this day the same bloke had the nerve to take a selfie with me! I was also able to get a picture of him._

Attached to the email was an image. John opened it up.

Unfortunately, the picture was blurry and grainy, the result of zooming in too much on a smartphone camera. What Sherbock and John were able to see was that the rooster had white hackles and a blue blazer on.

Sherbock leaned in closer. "Hey – isn't that the same rooster I asked for directions at the crime scene?"

John shrugged. "Dunno. If he's masquerading as a coveralled chicken, then if we go to the next crime scene, chances are he's there."

Sherbock nodded. "To battle, then."

END OF CHAPTER 4


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

 **NOTE:** Almost done! There probably will be another chapter after this.

Sherbock and John arrived at the newest crime scene.

As Sherbock stepped out of the taxi, he told John, "This is the newest crime scene – only five hours old. Thorough investigation of the other three have provided no leads, footprints, or DNA samples as to identify the killer."

The site of the murder was on the shore of the River Thames below a tall wooden dock that had long since been out of use. Sherbock and John had to take the stairs down below the dock, since it was low tide.

As expected, there were coveralled chickens milling around at the crime scene, taking notes and samples. Watching over them was a familiar gray rooster.

"Lestrade?!" John crowed. "What the hell is he doing here?"

The inspecktor heard him. "Whaddya think? Isn't it obvious?"

Sherbock sighed as he pulled John down the hallway where a group of coveralled chickens were working. Suspiciously, Sherbock noticed that one of the chickens looked quite nervous.

"John," he clucked lowly to his friend. "Stay here."

The small chicken was obviously miffed. "But-"

"Stay here," Sherbock repeated. He then waddled up to the shaking rooster and waved. "Lovely day, isn't it?"

"Er…yes. It really is." The chicken's beak chattered. With a start, Sherbock noticed that the rooster's hackles were white. _He's the murderer!_ Concealing his surprise, he continued to chat.

"I see. What's that thing in the bag?" He pointed at a small specimen collection bag that the rooster held. The rooster was clenching the bag tight, his wings shaking.

"Oh, um…it's the knife used to kill the unfortunate chicken back there." He pointed a shaky wing towards the investigators busy collecting samples.

"Cool. So, um…good luck!" Sherbock had taken on the guise of an innocent rooster who knew nothing, but inside he was quite surprised. _Well, well, well._

The other chicken nodded and turned around to the crime scene. Before turning around completely, he whispered into Sherbock's ear, "Piccadilly Circus. Eight o'clock."

Sherbock was unfazed. _Considering what happened with Cluckiarty last month, I'm not even surprised._

The rooster then walked away, bag still in hand. Sherbock stared after him, a determined look on his beak. _The game is on,_ he thought.

 **END OF CHAPTER 5**

NOTE: Sorry this took too long to put up and was too short for the trouble. Writer's block is really getting to me.


End file.
